


Desert Rain

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22404883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: Yeah I don't know what's going on either, but hey, here's me, with a bingo card, no less, and an attempted kink meme fill for a dead kink meme for a ship that I think only I am into. Whatever. It's fandom. Self indulgence is a thing. Been a shitty few years and I just am grateful to be writing anything.CW: Organic Mechanic being creepy and alluding to some creepiness in the past.Also, the shit about Versed?  100% true. Enjoy that next time you get oral surgery.Kink meme fill:  https://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/1730.html?thread=1153986#cmt1153986Bingo prompt "It Wasn't Meant to Be"
Relationships: The Ace/Furiosa (Mad Max)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17





	Desert Rain

The War Rig limped back to the Citadel, belching clouds of black smoke, steam hissing out of stressed cooling lines. The crew had fared slightly better. Only one War Boy lost, his body left to the Wastes, but he had given his Half Life protecting the Imperator from the explosion when the Buzzard’s engine block had blown. Spatters of blood had already dried to rust and black across the passenger-side cab, the window a grisly spiderwebbing of blood, brains and shattered glass. 

Ace himself had come out unharmed, beyond a few slivers of glass to the arm--not even worth mentioning, just scrubbing off in the sand. Still, he’d allowed himself a swallow of sun-boiled water on the ride home, feeling the heat pounding at his greased skull harder than usual. Must just be the way the War Rig shivered under him. Always felt connected to ‘em, he did. 

So it was partially his own exhaustion, partially the Rig’s, that he felt as he slid off the Rig’s dented side as it came to a stop. His feet felt a little shaky on the floor, as though the rig was still rumbling, his belly hot and queasy. 

Repair Boys and Black Thumbs gathered around it, already  _ chuk-i _ ng at the damage. A few of the smaller Repair Boys, lithe as monkeys, clambered up the side with buckets and rags. 

Ace was at the driver door when Furiosa opened it, and he started back at the sight of her--her entire right side dappled with blood and char. He could smell blood and burn off her, the stink of gore. 

“I’m fine,” she said, scowling, scrubbing her face with her metal hand, to demonstrate. . “It’s not mine.” 

“You sure?” 

She didn’t answer, just shot him a glare that pushed him back a step. He understood: you don’t question the Imperator. Especially in front of the Boys. 

Still, as she walked away, he couldn’t help but notice that her skin, usually sundusted tan, looked pale, almost as grey as his. 

*****

“Wouldn’t have to do this if you took some goddam care of yourself,” the Organic Mechanic griped, reaching to hang the skin bucket of water over Ace’s head, letting gravity pull it into the IV in his forearm. “Supposed to set an example to your War Boys.” 

“I’m trying.” He was getting old, and he knew it. They both knew it. And he hated to be reminded of it, and the Mechanic, at times, seemed to love to remind people of things they wanted to forget. “Can’t waste the water out in the Beyond.” Every sip could be life or death to someone else. 

“It ain’t a waste if it keeps you functioning.” 

“I’m fine,” Ace said, and he heard the echo of Furiosa’s words in his own mouth. He added, “Others worse’n me.” 

“And I’ve taken care of them,” the Mechanic said. “Here’s an idea: let me do my job. You do your job. Only, you know, better.” He gave a wave of his hand, that stung like a slap. “Looks like everyone got hit except the Imperator.” There seemed something behind the words, like a gibe, or a lie. 

“She’s lucky, that’s all.” 

“Not lucky for the one who didn’t make it,” the Mechanic said. His hands were good, his skills were good. His words, on the other hand…. 

“We never know when Valhalla will claim us,” Ace retorted. Perfectly pious words, but they sat wrong, somehow. Probably because Valhalla had not yet seen fit to claim him. And he waited for the Mechanic to rub that salt in his wounds, but the other man didn’t. Somehow. 

Probably because he didn’t need to. 

*****

His head still felt hot, like someone had been scraping at the insides of his skull. But the water had helped--he felt steadier on his feet, at least, as he walked up the worn stairs to the Imperators Quarters. He had a bundle of food in one hand, an excuse, really, as he tapped on Furiosa’s door. He didn’t wait for an answer--can’t be told no if you don’t ask--and pushed in. 

Furiosa whirled around, and he got half an eye full of a deep cut on her shoulder, skin gaping over raw muscle. “What!” she shouted, way too loud a voice for the room. 

Ace held out the food--some cheese and bread, wordless. She knew he’d seen her. There was a long moment, before she pulled a wrap over her shoulder, visibly wincing as the coarse fabric hit meat, and reached for the packet. He could see her favoring the arm, bad. 

“Gotta get that checked,” he said, flatly, squaring his feet on the ground, as though bracing for a fight. No point pretending--for either of them--that they didn’t know what he was talking about. 

“It’s nothing.” 

“That ain’t nothing.” His hand twitched, tempted to snatch the fabric off her shoulder. But he wasn’t the Mechanic: he couldn’t fix it. Pointless just to gawp at it. “It’s gonna go bad on you. Poison your blood.” 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve seen enough,” he said, stiffening his chest. Lost too many damn War Boys. No glory in dying in your bunk, rank and oozing pus. “The Mechanic’s got some stu--”

“I’m NOT going to see him,” she said, cutting him off with words thrown like stones. 

“Boss--” Too many damn War Boys, he thought. And she wasn’t just some War Boy. 

“That’ll be all, Ace,” she said, her voice colder than the blade winds that sometimes cut down from the north. 

If she’d struck him in the face, he couldn’t have been more shocked. Or hurt. All these years together, and she’d never--ever--pulled rank on him like this. 

“Boss,” he tried again, softening his voice, almost pleading. 

“That will be all,” she repeated. 

*****

Something wasn’t right. Many somethings, and they flapped around Ace’s head all night, like rabid bats. He could send the Organic Mechanic to her, rat her out, but that felt dirty. Just because she’d hurt him, he didn’t need to go petty. He could beg her again. But he’d already yielded before, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t do so again. He could, he thought, go to the infirmary. The Mechanic had some books, and Ace, though he didn’t tell anyone, remembered how to read (after a fashion). Maybe he could do it himself, find out how to treat it. 

Stitches, he thought. Probably stitches. He’d have to learn that, to shove steel in her skin, over and over again, with steady, even hands. He wasn’t sure he could do it. An engine, yeah, he could strip that down and put it back together in the dark and cleaner than before, but his hands hadn’t held anything so fine before. And Furiosa wasn’t an engine. 

And he knew there was some kind of cream, or salve, or something. White, like paste, that the Mechanic would slather on wounds, like war paint. He’d need some of that. 

Seemed like a plan, except for the hard part: getting her to let him touch her. 

Cross that ravine when we come to it, he thought, elbowing himself off his bunk. It was almost dawn.

****

“Whatcha doin’?” The Organic Mechanic’s voice, from behind him, that ‘snapping of a trap’ voice. 

Ace startled, almost dropping one of the jars of goop in the Mechanic’s cabinet. He’d already rummaged the small library, paper thin and dry and flaking, old Field Manuals and books full of diagrams--people after people, with no tumors, no malformations. Women--and he’d lost almost an hour in the rising day, staring at the drawings of women, how different their bodies were. They were...differenter than he’d thought. 

A flaw in his plan: hadn’t bothered to come up with a cover story. “For the Imperator,” he said. Not a lie. “Mission for th’Imperator.” Closer to a lie, but shored up better. Who would gainsay a mission for an Imperator, other than the Immortan himself? 

“Yeah?” Not a gainsay, but a question. “What kind of mission?” 

“Can’t say.” Won’t say. 

“Imperator Furiosa, huh?” The Mechanic gave a greasy laugh. “Not often she graces me with her presence.” 

“Lucky in combat,” Ace said. Drivers didn’t often get injured, too bad. They either died, or were okay. Most of the time. 

“Not when she lost her hand.” The Mechanic smirked, and then his smile turned sourly wistful. “Ahh, we had some fun then, her’n me. A real learnin’ experience.” 

A bad feeling that’d been swelling like a tick in Ace’s throat was stretched to burst. “Yeah,” he said, his voice coming out a croak. He hefted the small jar. “Gonna take this an’ be on my way.” 

“Sure,” the Mechanic said, almost too nice. “You let her know I do make house calls, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Ace said, pocketing the jar. That would be the very last damn thing he’d tell her. 

****

The salve wasn’t gonna be enough. He knew that as soon as he knocked, apologetically, and got no answer. He pushed in to the room, pushing aside the table she always braced against the door at night. And there she was, and he could see sweat dampening the sheet around her, could almost feel the fever heat from her two feet away. 

“Imper--” screw that. “Furiosa,” he said, suddenly wanting more than anything else in the world for her to yell at him again. Her eyes were lidded, shined with sweat, barely opening at the sound of his voice. 

He reached, gingerly, and raised her shoulder, wincing as he saw the red streaks along the skin. Poisoned blood, just as he’d thought. 

“You gotta go,” he said, the words trying not to form themselves. “You gotta go, Furiosa.”

“Don’t,” she said, but her voice lacked the force it had the night before. It was almost soft, like a plea. The stump of her other arm stirred, feebly. 

“You gotta,” he said, a third time, like it was a charm. 

She didn't answer, sagging back against her damp sheet, weakly. 

He didn’t care anymore: he scooped her up, hissing himself as his hand moved over the wound--he could feel its angry heat through the sheet. Ace felt a weird heat in his own body, at the weight of her body against his, a small stretch of bare skin of her flank against his belly, something long asleep stirring up. 

He pushed it down. No time for that kind of stuff right now. He moved as fast as he could down the steps, through the maze of tunnels and grilles, to the infirmary. 

The Organic Mechanic saw him enter, from across the room, almost like he’d been waiting, and came bustling over. “Imperator Furiosa,” he said, grinning. “What a pleasure it is to see you again.” He gestured Ace to follow him`and lay her down on the chipped exam table. 

“So,” he said, rubbing his hands together, “to what do I owe this unique honor?”

“Shoulder,” Ace said, feeling his mouth flatten into a thin, twisted line. He peeled the cloth back, wincing as it stuck to the wound. It was inflamed, angry and red, streaks stretching away from the wound like animal claws, trying to tear its way out. 

Furiosa gave a moan, eyelids flickering, struggling toward alertness. 

“Oh,” the Mechanic perked up. “Looks nasty!” He bustled over to his work table, grabbing a few things. “Definitely going to need debridement.” 

Furiosa flinched at the Mechanic’s touch. Not just from pain, Ace thought. Something instinctive, something deeper and more raw than mere pain. 

“Hurts, huh.” The Mechanic pulled a pair of spectacles over his ears. They made his eyes huge, wet and watery. “Don’t worry, our precious Furiosa. I’ve got something for that. You remember, right?”

The Mechanic turned back to his table, returning with a syringe and a vial. “Special medicine, just for the ladies,” he said, turning toward the light filtering in from above to fill the syringe. “The amazing thing about Versed: you feel pain. You feel every bit of it. But you just…,” he pocketed the vial, “don’t,” he tapped the syringe, releasing a bubble of air, “remember it.” The Mechanic peered up at her face, then gave a grin that the spectacles turned owlish and malign. “You won’t remember a thing.” 

A shudder ran through her that had nothing to do with pain. “...no,” she breathed, and her hand clutched at Ace’s in a mute gesture of pure fear. 

“No,” Ace said, echoing her, but more strongly. “She don’t need any of that.” 

“It’s going to hurt,” the Mechanic countered. 

“She don’t need it,” Ace repeated. “An Imperator doesn’t need anything for pain.” A lie, a lie balder than he was, but if it was overheard, every War Boy would agree that that sounded like the doctrine of the great V8. It didn’t have to be true. Just needed to work. 

“Oh, an Imperator,” the Mechanic sneered, obviously thwarted, obviously sulking. But he knew better than to argue. “Fine then.” He gave a mocking bow. “As my lady wishes.” 

He felt her hand squeeze against his again, but less the clutch of panic this time, more a comforted touch. That weird heat kindled again, low down in his belly, and his eyes drifted, almost of their own will, to the swell of her breast as the Mechanic rolled her on her side, the way gravity pulled the soft flesh. Everything about Furiosa was so hard--muscle and metal--except there, freed from its usual binding. His other hand ached to touch it, just to graze the skin, to feel its satin weight, smooth and round and perfect--the exact opposite of him: lumpy and misshapen and so imperfect Valhalla had not yet seen to call for him. 

It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t his to touch, would never be his. And the heat in his belly turned sour, something like anger. But, he thought, it wasn’t the Mechanic’s either. And that counted for something. 

She hissed as the Mechanic worked on her shoulder, at first pouring a liquid that fizzed and hissed, and then blotting it, then digging in at the flesh with a metal tool. “Any time you change your mind about that shot, Furiosa,” the Mechanic said, blandly. “We had so much fun last time.” 

*****

Ace jerked awake, hours later, late enough that the only light was the thin filtering of moonlight through the high clerestory. It felt like everything hurt, every joint in his body, every muscle stiffened and twisted. At first the world seemed wrong, unfamiliar, before the angles resolved: he was curled on the floor of the infirmary, and that set of lines beside him was the rusted legs of the cot he’d taken Furiosa to. 

She still looked feverish and sick, even in the washed out light, but the moonlight still limped her features with a kind of glow that seemed magic, turning her face into an endless, beautiful study of lines and rounded contours--the plush swell of her lips, the soft curve of her cheeks, the delicate swoop of her eyebrows. So different, all of them, from the straight lines and hard angles of a War Rig or a gun. 

There was a sheet draped over her, and the moonlight carved that into valleys, an intricate set of crescents of shadow. He could almost--but not quite--see the curve of her breasts in the mass of curves and shadows that shifted with each breath. 

The thought kicked him low down in his gut, and he felt a tingling, almost electric fire rush his veins, like guzzoline set alight. He wanted her, wanted to touch her, more than he’d ever wanted anything else in his Half Life. Even more than Valhalla. Even more than his own memories of ancient days. He felt the tingling settle down, pooling into a throbbing arousal, every inch of his skin burning with longing. 

He rose up, kneeling beside her, just...looking. Looking and wanting, daring himself to touch, even just the curve of her cheek with the side of his thumb, and then quashing the thought. It wasn’t going to happen. Couldn’t happen. She was his Imperator, a half God, and he was a reject, time and again, of Valhalla’s glories. She was young, and beautiful in a way even a clean running engine couldn’t touch. He was old, and warped, scars twisting his face, tumors gnawing at his bones. 

Furiosa shifted in her sleep, the sheet slipping, revealing a slope of a clavicle to the silvery moonlight. It drew his eyes, and he felt his pulse quicken, a tightness of longing in his throat. 

She trusted him, in the face of the Mechanic. She trusted him, and it would be a breach of something sacred for him to break it. And there wasn’t much Ace held sacred any more. 

She moved again, a ripple of pain crossing her face before her eyelids fluttered open, finding his gaze. 

He froze, feeling caught out, hoping she couldn’t see the naked want on his face. 

“You stayed,” she said, her voice coming out as a croak over a fever-dry throat. 

Something swam behind her eyes, her own secret--but he’d pieced enough of that together himself, what she was hiding, what she couldn’t bear to bring to words. Her mouth twitched again, and he shook his head. No need to say anything. More words might tip the balance between them. Better to live in a suspended potential, to want, and wish, and desire, than to risk too much and ruin even that. 

“Yeah.” One syllable, saying not enough and wholly, entirely too much, hanging between them in the moonlight like a rare drop of trembling rain. 


End file.
